


Mind Over Matter

by rarelypoetic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, DCBB, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Half-Human!Cas, M/M, Mark of Cain, Top Castiel, curing Dean of the Mark, dcbb15, half-angel!dean, shameless biblical ret-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarelypoetic/pseuds/rarelypoetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel and Sam perform an ancient angelic purification ritual on Dean in the hopes of curing him of the Mark, but it has some unexpected consequences. In the process of trying to figure out what went wrong, Castiel realizes a thing or two about angelic history, Dean discovers that the boundary between divinity and humanity is not quite as delineated as he had thought, and together they learn that some things are a long time coming.</p><p>“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” - Emily Brontë</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Over Matter

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [DCBB 2015 challenge.](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Thank you so, so much to my beta, who you can find on ao3 as [Slanguage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slanguage) and also on [tumblr](http://shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com/), and thank you to my good friend [zombiebrainsoup](http://zombiebrainsoup.tumblr.com/) who helped with additional edits and moral support. I owe you all so much. Another huge thanks to my artist, [Psynatural](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Psynatural/), as well (who you can also find on [LJ](http://psynatural.livejournal.com/)). You can find the art masterpost [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5269835)
> 
> Follow me @[excaliburcas](http://excaliburcas.tumblr.com) if you'd like.

_56 CUT TO - INT. DEAN’S ROOM, MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER - MORNING_

_The room is dark but lit just enough to be seen. Two figures lay intertwined on the bed, the centerpoint of the room. One of the two, CASTIEL, sits up. He watches over his companion, DEAN, in silence for a moment until Dean stirs, waking._

CASTIEL  
Good morning, Dean.

DEAN  
Time is it?

CASTIEL  
Just after five AM.

DEAN  
Why am I awake?

_Castiel gestures to the mark on Dean’s arm. It glows eerily in the dim room. Castiel reaches out to touch it but quickly retracts his hand as if the mark scalds him. Dean looks troubled; he burns tirelessly from within, incandescent. While Castiel burns similarly from the flares of a dying grace, he knows its volatility is transient. But unbeknownst to both of them, behind Castiel’s ribcage, below his heart, a new, mercurial light has begun to take root. When Castiel looks at Dean, the light grows, and grows, and grows._

-

Dean wakes up one morning to a distinctly different voice narrating his subconscious. On the scale of Weird Shit that has happened to the Winchesters over the decades, this hardly even registers.

Dean heaves himself off the side of the bed and waits a full twenty seconds before his head stops spinning. He blinks his surroundings into focus and finds at least four new empty bottles of beer strewn about the floor; that isn’t particularly unusual either.

His first coherent thought of the day is not his own, and it is not really a thought but a picture: a mouth-wateringly big steak, medium rare, leaking juice all over a plate of crinkle wedge fries. While that is definitely something that Dean himself would think about, it’s somehow clear to him that the thought belongs to someone else. It feels foreign in his head, echoing around untethered and too-loud.

Dean pulls on a flannel button-up, combs a hand through his bed-head, and shakes himself. The best way to deal with the situation is to ignore it, probably. After all, a few harmless intrusive thoughts never hurt anyone.

As he’s stepping into a pair of jeans, a tiny kernel of unwarranted thought blooms in Dean’s mind, and he knows at least three seconds before it happens that Sam is going to--

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is accompanied by his characteristic pattern of knocking - three sharp raps with his knuckles, quick and efficient. Dean throws open the door and Sam immediately frowns at the expression on his face.

“So, I’m hearing these voices,” Dean starts. Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean holds his hand up to silence him. “Before you say anything, I’m not drunk, just a little hungover. And I’m 98% sure this is not demonic possession.”

“That’s weird,” Sam says, looking thoughtful, “but I actually came in here to ask about food. Wanna discuss this over lunch?”

“Lunch?” Dean glances at the clock. Twelve PM.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I was looking at reviews on Yelp for this new diner nearby. They have a Greek salad that looks--”

“Oh my God,” Dean says, because at the very moment Sam says the word ‘salad,’ Dean sees that same picture of a steak from before flash through his mind. “You-- you fucking liar. You want steak.”

“What?” Sam asks, scandalized.

“I can see it, man. Medium rare, at least 16 oz...”

“Shut up.” Sam says it out loud, but Dean hears it echo in his head a few times too, like some broken feedback loop.

“I don’t want to go out and have to deal with hearing everyone’s thoughts,” Dean decides finally. If this mind-reading thing extends to the general public too, he’s going to have a hell of a migraine.

“Are you reading my mind right now?” Sam asks, lips pursed.

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. It’s mostly just white noise. Kind of a jumble of mismatched sounds and images. Sometimes a specific thought is louder than the rest.”

Sam does the thing where his eyebrows make an earnest attempt at reaching his hairline. Dean knows he’s in trouble then.

“That’s incredible.” 

“It’s not incredible, Sam!” Dean throws up his hands and walks over to his bureau to fiddle with the various items on top of it--a photograph that Bobby took of him and Sam when they were little, a polaroid of a younger Charlie doing the Vulcan salute in a full suit of armor, an old swiss army knife, a packet of matches, and a few loose nickels. Dean gets so absorbed in keeping his hands busy that he almost misses what Sam says next.

“Let’s test it out.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of a number, one thr--”

“No. No. No. I’m not playing this game. I’m not gonna be a guinea pig! We’re going to hit the books and find out what caused this and how to fix it, and then we’re going to fix me.”

“It might help if we knew more about this. If we can find out how specific it is, we can narrow down our research.”

“You’re joking.”

“It’s harmless,” Sam reasons. He stares him down for a whole minute before Dean relents.

“Fine!”

“Okay, what number am I thin--”

“Thirty-eight.”

Sam stops abruptly and gets a totally stunned expression on his face. “How did you...”

“You were practically screaming it, Sam.”

“Okay, so if I think _at_ you, this works a little better.” Sam closes his eyes for a second and a moment later Dean hears very distinctly, _‘Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,’_ complete with a little sing-song voice and all.

“Nursery rhymes? Really?” Dean scoffs.

“It was the first thing that came to mind,” Sam says haughtily. “And that proves my point. It’s more accurate if I focus my thoughts in your direction.”

“Great work, Sherlock. You figured out what we’ve already established: I can read your mind. But what does that mean for me? What is this?”

“Could be a spell or a curse.” Sam shrugs. “I’ll look through the library, maybe make a few calls.” Sam turns to leave but pauses at the doorjamb. “In the meantime, you should call Cas.”

Dean makes a face and goes to sit down on bed. Sometimes just hearing Castiel’s name is enough to make him feel winded these days. “What would he know about mind reading?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dean. I just thought that maybe a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent might have some useful input once in a while.”

“I hope you know I don’t appreciate your sass,” Dean retorts, propping his feet up on the bed and reclining. Sam stares hard at him for a few more seconds before making a swift retreat, throwing an unspoken _’jerk’_ in his direction.

Dean waits until Sam’s out of earshot to pick up his cell phone. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but-- but it’s been a long time, and it wouldn’t hurt to hear his voice. He hits number two on speed dial before he can talk himself out of it. Castiel answers on the first ring.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas.” Dean’s voice comes out rough. “How’s it going?”

Castiel is quiet for a long moment, but then he sighs and says wearily, “It’s going.”

“Man, you sound how I feel.” Dean clears his throat. “So, what have you been up to?”

“Hunting. Mostly demons. I’ve been trying to figure out where to go from here.”

“I told you you weren’t ready to hunt on your own.”

“Yes, and I told you not to baby me.”

Dean huffs a wry laugh. “Touché.”

There is a stretch of silence in which Dean hears the soft tread of tires on asphalt and the low screeching sound that Cas’ ancient car makes as it lurches along. He’s on the road, then. Dean is tempted to tell him he shouldn’t be talking and driving at the same time, but the thought of babying a soon-to-be-ex-angel is admittedly a little bit ridiculous, not to mention patronizing.

“Why did you call?” Castiel asks eventually.

Dean swallows hard and tries not to ignore the almost accusatory tone in Cas’ voice. “I can’t just call to check up on you?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to laugh. “We haven’t talked in days. I assumed you weren’t concerned.”

Oh. Oh, fuck.

“Cas, that’s not even... that’s not it at all. I’ve just been--”

“Busy? I understand. I don’t want to take up more of your time than necessary.”

“You know it’s not like that.” Dean presses the palm of his hand to his forehead and just barely refrains from groaning out loud. “Talking to you isn’t a chore. I just have a lot on my plate, and I’m not the most considerate person in the world as it is.”

“Right,” Castiel says, though he sounds like he wants to protest.

“Okay, so. Where are you? What’s your next stop?”

“I’m just outside of Wichita. I don’t know where I’m going yet.”

“You sound tired,” Dean comments. His stomach twists nervously in anticipation of what he’s about to say, and he silently berates himself for it. “You know it wouldn’t-- it wouldn’t be unreasonable for you to stop by the bunker for a couple of days, catch up on some rest.”

“Are you sure that would be prudent? I don’t need to sleep,” Castiel says. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Prudent? Come on, man. That grace isn’t going to last you forever, and it never hurts to catch a few z’s when you’re off-duty. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have the room.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll make dinner,” he promises.

“I’ll be there by dusk,” Castiel says solemnly. .

“Great. See ya then.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean grins like an idiot at his empty room and ends the call.

-

_One Week Ago_

_It was a bad idea. Sam even thought so, and he had been willing to do some pretty dubious shit in the name of removing the Mark. But when Castiel had come to them with the idea, they had all been at their wit’s end. Dean was human again, but he could feel the itch of the demon under his skin, and when he looked in the mirror, his eyes flashed black almost as often as they were green._

_“The ritual is angelic in origin,” Cas had told them. “I found it in an ancient tome in Metatron’s old office in Heaven. There is an issue, however.”_

_“What?” Sam had asked, twitchy with eagerness._

_“The bulk of the ritual is in Enochian, but there’s a postscript written by Metatron that I can’t translate. It’s likely something only a prophet could decipher.”_

_“Well, we’re shit out of luck, then,” Dean snapped. Thinking about Kevin made the Mark spike like a hot poker under his skin._

_“Dean,” Sam warned. “We can’t just pass this opportunity up. You know how Metatron is; the postscript is probably just him gloating.”_

_“Or it says ‘p.s. completing this ritual will blow up the world.’”_

_“I highly doubt--” Cas started._

_“We’re doing it,” Sam said firmly, no room for argument. “Cas, how soon can you gather the materials?”_

_“I’ll need a week, but if Hannah is willing to help, it could take a few days.”_

_Dean couldn’t see why Hannah would want to help Cas doing anything that involved saving Dean, but she had agreed rather easily, to all of their surprise. The ingredients were gathered in three days. On the morning of the fourth day, Cas sat him down in the bunker and read the ritual to him and Sam in English._

_“Wait,” Dean had stopped him. “That part about the-- the essence of the Holy host. What does that mean?”_

_“Loosely translated, it means ‘grace.”_

_“Whoa, okay,” Dean said. “So we’re going to kill an angel? If so, can I make a suggestion? I think Metatron is a great candidate.”_

_“Dean.” Cas looked like he was on the verge of honest-to-God rolling his eyes. “We’re not killing anyone. I’m sharing my own grace.”_

_“Won’t that kill_ you _?” Dean’s heart was beating a fierce tattoo against his ribcage. Sam looked between the two of them like he was getting ready to defuse a bomb._

_“This grace...” Castiel sighed, looking suddenly world-weary. “It’s not even technically mine. Extracting some of it won’t kill me as long as I leave enough to heal the exit wound. Besides, the ritual only calls for half.”_

_“Half of your grace?” Dean asked incredulously. This was sounding like some insane cosmic recipe: two cups of grace, a little bit of stardust, and a whole lot of stupid._

_“Grace-splitting is the exact term. Angels are expressly banned from doing so, as it limits our power and strains our connection with the heavenly host, but it doesn’t matter in my case. This grace will burn out of me eventually either way.”_

_“Cas...”_

_“It won’t hurt me,” Castiel assured. “And I’m willing. I want to help you in any way that I can, Dean.”_

_It was settled then. Dean still felt gnawing anxiety in his gut at the thought of it, but under Sam’s determined glare and Castiel’s earnest gaze, he couldn’t stop it. They performed the ritual that afternoon. It went about as smoothly as one could expect._

_Dean almost vomited all over his shoes at the sight of Castiel slitting his throat. Sam had to be the one to capture half of the grace in a little glass bottle; Dean’s hands were shaking too badly to hold it still._

_Cas healed himself with a hand to his throat, but the blue light emitting from his palm seemed dimmer than usual, and the healing time took longer. Castiel took the bottle from Sam when he was finished and poured it over the bowl of other ingredients. It was a murky mix of myrrh, rosemary, sage, the finger bones of a lesser saint, and about a dozen other things Dean had never even heard of. The grace slithered into the bowl and charged the soupy mixture with an eerie glow._

_“Sam, the candles,” Castiel said urgently._

_Sam lit the six slender sandalwood candles that surrounded the bowl and the glowing mixture grew brighter at once. The lights in the bunker flickered for a moment before a few bulbs exploded overhead. Dean felt an electric current zip down his spine. He gritted his teeth. The Mark was roaring under his skin now, perhaps sensing its impending demise._

_“I’m sorry, Dean,” said Castiel. “This will hurt immensely.”_

_Cas settled a hand at the back of Dean’s neck and brought the bowl to his lips. Dean took a sip and almost choked on it. Castiel held his head in place and spoke the first line on the tome’s old page from memory. Sam read the next line carefully, and the two of them took turns, Dean sipping from the bowl after each line. The mixture burned on his tongue like raw chili at first, and soon every swallow felt like it was scorching his throat on the way down._

_Dean grew incredibly hot all over, feeling as though he were standing under a scalding stream of water. He began to sweat as he never had before, so profusely that a puddle formed at his feet after a few seconds. The second to last sip was unbearable. Dean made a strangled sound, and Castiel had to clasp a hand over his mouth to keep him from spitting it out. He held Dean still while he tried to thrash out of Castiel’s hands. It took a full minute before he was able to swallow._

_Dean distantly realized that he could no longer feel his arm at all. It was the same feeling one got when a limb was incredibly hot or incredibly cold; eventually, it lost sensation altogether. Loss of sensation was a minor miracle compared to what the rest of his body felt like._

_It was as though someone had lit a fire inside him and was attempting to pull his skeleton out from his throat all at once. Castiel had to envelop him entirely for the last sip. His grasp was a parody of the way he’d held Dean when he’d tried to kill Sam as a demon, only this time Dean didn’t feel righteous and angry; he was just terrified - terrified and resigned and exhausted on a molecular level._

_Sam tipped the rest of the mixture into his mouth while Cas held him. Dean didn’t have enough energy to resist the last swallow. It went down like a shot of Russian vodka, only the burn was amplified a millionfold. The flame within Dean flared until he was sure he would collapse from the pressure._

_Castiel spoke the last line of the spell into his ear, and everything came to a momentary still before the tension in Dean’s body exploded all at once. He passed out with the force of it._

_When he woke up later that day, Castiel and Sam were looming over him with identical expressions of concern on their faces. Dean sat up, expecting to feel a residual burn in his limbs, but the only evidence that he had been in debilitating pain a few hours ago was the achy feeling in his skin, like someone had rubbed aloe all over a bad sunburn. He wet his lips and looked down to where Castiel’s thumb was rubbing a gentle circle into his right forearm._

_Dean did a double-take. Where the Mark had been earlier, there was now a large, slightly raised symbol that shone faintly blue in direct light. It resembled a calligraphy version letter ‘k’ from the Latin alphabet, only with an extra line drawn between the two protruding lines that differentiated an ‘l’ from a ‘k.’_

_“The Mark of Cain is gone,” Castiel reassured him, mistaking Dean’s awe for worry. “This is a different mark - Enochian in nature. Cain’s Mark was burned out by it.”_

_“Okay,” said Dean, voice sticking in his throat. “As long as this one doesn’t make me turn into a murderous psychopath.”_

_It didn’t. In fact, for the next few days, Dean felt better than he had in a year._

-

“We have any meat in the fridge?” Dean asks when he steps in the library.

“Why? You cooking?” There is an audible note of excitement in Sam’s voice.

“Cas is coming over soon. Thought I would make us all dinner.”

Something in Sam’s expression changes slightly so that he looks almost smug. He shrugs and turns back to the dusty volume he’d had his nose buried in. “You’re the keeper of the fridge now, remember?”

“Whatever, loser. Go back to making out with your books,” Dean says. He feels more than sees the eyeroll that Sam directs at him. When he’s in another room it’s easier to tune out the monologue that runs through Sam’s head. Most of it is indistinct, anyway, like he’s put up a wall to keep Dean from listening in, but the closer he gets the clearer the thoughts are. Right now, Dean is reading more emotions than individual words. Sam’s ‘aura’is colored with frustration, but it’s not directed at him. Dean guesses it has something to do with the dozens of open books piled around him on the table.

It turns out that there is, miraculously, a generous supply of frozen meat tucked away into the freezer. It should probably be good still. And if it tastes like ice chips, it’s nothing Dean can’t fix with a clever mixture of herbs and spices. He figures a good meal will cheer up Sam, too.

Dean takes the frozen meat out and puts it under the faucet for a while to thaw it enough that it’ll cook evenly. “New York strip,” Dean says aloud. “You up for that, Sammy?”

Sam’s entire being pulses with joy at the suggestion, and for a second Dean is legitimately overwhelmed with the force of it. It’s hard enough dealing with his own feelings; the human body was clearly not meant to harbor two different people’s emotions at once.

Dinner takes an hour to cook because Dean decides to make side dishes, too, but quickly realizes how short-sighted he’s been. He knows red meat is like, a thing for Castiel, but he’s not sure how Cas feels about string beans. Are angels omnivores? Do they even _like_ vegetables? After all, they didn’t go through that phase as children where their parents forced broccoli on them until they grudgingly accepted it as a part of life.

He spends at least ten more minutes than he should ruminating before just deciding to take his chances. Sam loves his veggies and will likely bitch at him if he makes only meat. Dean decides to throw some pasta in the pot as well, and by the time everything is ready, there is a veritable feast in the kitchen.

Dean feels a shift in the air the moment after he finishes plating the first dish. He knows immediately what it means with a certainty that is almost unnerving and almost trips over himself on the way out of the kitchen, muttering a hasty, “Cas is here,” to Sam as he breezes past. He unbolts and opens the front door just as Cas is raising a hand to knock.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says in the exact same tone that he had hours earlier on the phone. He doesn’t sound any different, but seeing his face adds a whole other dimension to the tightness in Dean’s chest.

“Hey,” Dean croaks. They stand staring at each other for several seconds before Dean realizes two things simultaneously: 1) He should probably move out of the way and let Cas inside. 2) He can’t hear anything from Castiel’s mind; it’s complete radio silence. Not even white noise.

Still, there is something about him that Dean can sense, a kind of a gravity that settled at the base of his spine the moment Castiel was nearby.

Castiel follows him inside the bunker and immediately freezes when the smell of cooked meat wafts into the room. He turns to Dean with wide eyes, mouth slightly ajar, and Dean senses the first real emotion coming off of him: a pulse of something slow and languid, like liquid contentment. Dean manages to contain the shiver that the feeling sends up his spine, but it’s a close thing.

“You made steak?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah.” Dean swallows. “No big deal. Just thought you could use a hearty home-cooked meal after all that time out on the road. I know you lived off of shitty coffee half the time as a human.”

“I don’t need to eat,” Castiel reminds him, but every inch of him radiates gratefulness.

“Not the point.”

Dean leads him into the library, where Sam is shuffling around books and muttering to himself. There is a deep furrow between his brows, but it disappears the moment he looks up and finds the two of them standing there.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, snapping the book nearest to him closed. Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement, smiling warmly. Sam clears his throat to get Dean’s attention. “I haven’t found much yet. Just a couple of weird passages about this obscure Aztec ritual that caused mind-melding.”

“Sounds promising,” Dean snorts.

Castiel looks between the two of them with a little frown playing at the corner of his mouth, and Dean finds himself wanting to wipe it away immediately. “Has something come up?” he asks.

Sam’s eyes snap over to Dean, sharp and assessing. Dean hears, very clearly, _’You didn’t tell him?’_ resonate in his head like an accusation. Dean shakes his head helplessly. Sam rolls his eyes.

“We’ve got a little bit of a... situation,” Dean hedges.

Sam sighs, put-upon, before explaining, “Dean can read minds now.”

“For how long?” Castiel asks, tone entirely too casual for the news he just heard. Well, Dean should have expected as much. This isn’t exactly outside the realm of possibility, or probably even close to the strangest thing Castiel has ever seen on earth.

“Since this morning. Woke up with Sam’s voice in my head,” Dean says, shrugging. “But I can only really hear specific thoughts when they’re directed at me.”

“What about Cas?” Sam asks pointedly. “Are you getting anything from him?”

“No,” Dean says too quickly. “Nothing. Kind of like a wall of silence. But I did know he was here before he knocked.”

Castiel looks away for a second, considering. When he looks back at Dean, his eyes are narrowed. “You could be attuned to wavelengths,” he says, “like angels are. That would explain why you were able to sense my presence. You can perceive emotion too, correct?”

“Yeah.” A thought occurs to Dean and he shudders. “Are you saying I have some freaky angel powers now? ‘Cause no offense, man, but I rather not be affiliated with you guys anymore than I absolutely have to be.”

“None taken,” Castiel says wryly. “This is likely just a temporary side effect of the purification ritual.”

Dean holds up the arm with the Enochian mark seared onto it and quirks an eyebrow. “Does this have something to do with the new mark?”

“It could, but the ritual didn’t say anything about mind-reading. It was solely about purifying the body.”

“What, then?” Dean feels the itch of frustration under his skin and takes a deep breath. No hulking out. He’s promised himself that; he’s done enough with the Mark to last him a few lifetimes. “We haven’t hunted a witch or warlock in forever.”

There’s a beat of silence. Sam’s stomach rumbles obnoxiously at the exact moment that Castiel looks like he’s about to go into Serious Problem Solving Mode. Dean claps his hands together.

“Well, I’ve been living with the new mark for a week and I’m still alive. It’s not like I’m going to expire over dinner.”

He looks at Sam and Cas’ faces in turn, trying to ignore how unimpressed they are by his nonchalant act. Sam is radiating displeasure and worry like a furnace. Castiel’s aura is neutral, but the look on his face says it all. It’s Sam who finally breaks. “I could eat,” he hedges.

“Fine,” Castiel concedes, then addresses Dean, “but you’ll let me look at you afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Dean promises, swallowing past the sticky feeling in his throat. Cas is gonna _look_ at him. He’s going to touch the new mark and maybe even poke around in Dean’s mind. The thought makes his throat dry.

Dean goes to get the food from the kitchen. Steak and beer have never made all of his problems go away in the past, but maybe they will just this once.

-

Dean feels just as shitty about his current predicament after dinner, except now he has one new problem to keep him company: the way Castiel sounds when he eats Dean’s food. When Sam moans over a good steak, it’s flattering and a little gross. When Cas does it, it’s... well. It gets to the point where Dean is crossing and uncrossing his legs under the table like a middle-aged mom reading _Fifty Shades of Grey_ in public.

“You liked it?” Dean asks as he’s clearing the plates away, because - sue him - he wants to see Castiel’s face light up again.

Just as he suspected, Cas’ expression immediately brightens. “Very much.” He gets up to help Dean take the dirtied plates into the kitchen. “Where did you learn how to cook like that?”

“Here and there.” Dean shrugs. Then, like a shameful secret, he admits, “It was kind of do or die. Can’t live on Kraft mac and cheese forever. I used to watch the cooking channel a lot when no one was around, ‘specially after Sammy left for college. My dad pretty much went on a year-long bender after that, and I was on my own for a while.”

“That wasn’t fair of him,” Castiel says thoughtfully. He stacks the plates beside the sink carefully, one by one, and Dean begins to wash them.

“Something good came out of it, though,” Dean says lightly. He feels _something_ , perhaps displeasure, radiate off of Castiel. It resonates uncomfortably in Dean’s chest, rattling his nerves until he’s on edge and twitchy.

Castiel steals a soapy plate right out of Dean’s hands and drops it into the sink. “This can wait,” he says firmly, stepping back and gesturing in the direction of the library. Dean rolls his eyes but follows without complaint. A little part of him is curious too.

Sam is standing at the table when they walk in, flipping idly through a book the size of his torso. He looks up as they approach him, and Dean tries to ignore the creeping sense of worry that is coming off of Sam in waves. His brother’s mind is a staticky jumble of pictures rather than thoughts; Dean sees several different images of ancient ruins flit past his mind’s eye, fast enough that it makes his head spin.

“Dude,” Dean says, bringing up a hand to massage his temples. “Can you tone it down a little?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Sam insists.

“You’re being--” Dean waves his hand in a floppy, indistinct gesture “--too loud.”

Sam looks like he wants to argue, but the firm set of Dean’s mouth keeps him quiet. Then Sam deflates suddenly, hanging his head. “I can’t find _anything_ on angelic purification. They have an entire section devoted to witch spells and rituals, but not one thing mentioning angels.”

“It’s not surprising that the Men of Letters knew nothing about this,” Castiel says. “Angelic rituals are a well-guarded secret amongst the oldest of our kind. I knew nothing about them until I found the tome. I doubt my brothers and sisters have any knowledge of it either.”

“Okay, so who do we turn to, then?” Dean asks. He regrets his decision to ask immediately, because the first person that pops into Sam’s head sends Dean reeling. “No. _No_. Absolutely not, Sam.”

“Dean, I just think--”

“We are not using Kevin!” Dean shouts. Sam flinches away from him. It’s the loudest Dean has gotten since he was chasing Sam down the hallway with an axe. He takes a deep breath and adds more quietly, “It’s not enough that we ruined his life? It’s not enough that I got him killed?”

“Dean,” says Castiel. He’s much closer than he was before. With a start, Dean realizes that Cas’ fingers have closed around his right forearm. He looks down and sees the new mark glowing blue.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he spits. “Cas, I thought you said this wasn’t gonna be the Mark of Cain all over again.”

“It’s not,” Castiel says immediately. Sam has come to stand behind Castiel, peering over his shoulder at the mark. “I don’t know what this is. It’s not giving off negative energy, but I can’t get a clear read on it. Does it hurt?”

“No,” Dean says, “but it feels weird and cold. A little numb.”

“Dean,” Sam says quietly, eyes boring holes into the side of his brother’s head.

Dean grits his teeth and says, “Call Ms. Tran.”

-

Linda picks up on the fourth ring. When she answers, Sam almost loses his nerve. Dean feels the moment when Sam makes an aborted twitch to hang up the phone. Instead, he puts the phone on speaker, clears his throat and says, “Hello, Ms. Tran. It’s... it’s Sam. Sam Winchester. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from--”

“Hello, Sam. It’s been a while.” She sounds... not weary, necessarily, but almost resigned, like she has been expecting this phone call for a while. “Did something happen?”

“We, um, well. It’s a long story. Dean was cursed, we tried to fix it, and we ended up possibly making it worse. There’s a postscript in a ritual that might have the answer, but we can’t translate it. Only... only a prophet can do that.”

“Kevin’s been gone a while now,” Linda says. Her voice is tight, flat, without emotion. Dean is nauseated at the feel of his and Sam’s combined guilt weighing down on his chest. “He left after Heaven opened again. Staying in the veil was making him miserable. I didn’t want him to feel that way anymore, so I convinced him to leave.”

“Oh.” Sam swallows. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad he’s...” _Don’t say ‘in a better place.’ God, that’s horrible. Shit. Shit. What do I say?_ “... at peace,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Me too,” says Linda quietly. Sam remains silent for a moment, and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, Linda cuts him off. “Look, Sam, whatever you want from him, do me a favor, okay? Don’t ask. You and I both know he’s been through enough. Let him rest.”

“Of course.” Sam swallows three times in succession. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “Of course, Ms. Tran. I’m sorry to bother you. Forget I called. I... wish you the best.”

“Thank you, Sam. I hope you sort things out with your brother.”

“Well, that was a bust,” Dean says after Sam has hung up. The mark on his arm is no longer glowing, but it still feels a little like an ice chip is sitting just under his skin.

“You were right. I shouldn’t have called her in the first place,” Sam says tiredly.

“Yeah, well, it feels shitty to be right.” Dean scrapes a hand through his hair. “What now?”

“Who knows where the next prophet is. The only other being we know of who can read the postscript is Metatron,” Sam says. Sometimes he has a habit of stating the obvious. Dean begins to say so when Castiel bustles into the room, trenchcoat flapping pitifully behind him.

“I talked to Hannah. She said she’s returning to Heaven for the sake of the woman who inhabits her vessel. She’s taking over up there.”

“Do you think she’d let us get anywhere near Metatron?” Sam asks.

“No. Hannah likes order and justice. Keeping Metatron locked up is her way of ensuring he does his penance. She wouldn’t let me near him.”

Dean throws up his hands in frustration. “Let’s just forget it, then! Fuck, who cares! So I have a giant blue glowing mark on my arm, and I can read Sam’s mind. Is that really the worst--”

A burst of static erupts in Dean’s head, and suddenly all he can hear is the murmur of distant voices, the low susurrus of indistinct rustling. When he opens his eyes again, he’s on his knees and Castiel and Sam are both crouching beside him.

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel asks, but it’s like he’s speaking from miles away. Cas says his name again, and something in Dean quakes at the sound of it. His voice is two-toned now, no longer just that deep rumble of Jimmy Novak’s, but something else, too - something ancient and chilling and in a language Dean shouldn’t understand.

“I can hear you,” Dean manages to gasp out. “Your voice. It’s different. It’s not--” _human._

Castiel says something else but Dean can’t parse the individual words because all he can feel is the way that voice resonates in his chest. It’s familiar, like something from a dream he’s long forgotten about, something that speaks of flames and dying embers and ozone. It sounds like the other voices in his head, too, the ones from far away.

“What are you hearing?” Sam asks. His mind is a dull hum compared to the static in Dean’s mind.

Dean looks at Castiel’s eyes and sees the ethereal glow behind them. Then he knows. “It’s the angels. I can hear them talking.”

Castiel puts a palm to his forehead. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out. All at once, like someone flicking a switch off, the static disappears. Castiel helps him to his feet, and when Dean looks at him, his eyes are back to normal. When he speaks, Dean can understand him again.

“I may have been wrong before when I said that Dean wasn’t developing angelic powers,” Castiel says. He looks more surprised than Dean has ever seen him.

“Does this mean I’m going to sprout wings?” Dean asks faintly.

Sam is studying them both with his eyes practically bugging out of his skull, mind an incoherent mess of exclamations that makes Dean’s head hurt.

“No?” Cas says, but it sounds more like a question than anything.

Dean cannot believe this is his life. “How is this even possible? The only entity that can create angels is God, right?” Cas remains silent. “ _Right_?”

“God created those rituals,” Castiel eventually says. “Metatron was just the scribe. It’s possible that... that God created a loophole, a-- a way to create angels without His hand being directly involved in the matter.”

“Why would he do that?” Sam asks.

“Many angels died while Michael and Lucifer were engaged in war. If only a finite number of angels were created, it doesn’t make sense that our ranks didn’t dwindle down to nothing millions of years ago. God must have planned on leaving us from the start.” Castiel sighs. “Indirect creation of angels could have been his contingency plan. Maybe that’s what pushed Lucifer over the edge: the knowledge that God had ordained the transfiguration of humans into angels.”

“If that’s true, then why didn’t Raphael just create himself an entire holy army out of humans when he wanted to take over Heaven?” Dean asks.

“I doubt he knew about the tome. Michael would have been the only one to have access when it was written, and when he was fighting Lucifer, it must have befallen Metatron to protect it. He’s probably had it with him for centuries, possibly the entire time he’s been in hiding,” Castiel says. “That would explain why there aren’t many angels left. No one has been around to make new ones in millenia.”

“This is insane,” Sam says, but there’s an excited light behind his eyes like it’s Christmas morning. “Does this mean that some angels were human once?”

“That seems likely,” Castiel says. “But a human soul and grace cannot coexist inside one entity. Eventually, one takes over the other.”

“So an angel-turned-human would be virtually indistinguishable from an angel originally created by God?” Sam guesses.

“In theory, yes, but that doesn’t explain why Dean’s soul is still intact - I can see it. It’s just as bright as it was before the Mark.”

“Maybe he’s rejecting the grace,” Sam says thoughtfully.

Castiel hums contemplatively. “That’s possible. Dean is the most stubborn human I know.”

“Hey!”

“That’s not an insult, Dean. It’s a testament to the strength of your soul.”

Dean flushes and shrinks back into himself. All of this talk about angels and wars and rituals is making him sick. He collapses into a chair and hangs his head. “Is that what this mark is? A branding? ‘Dean Winchester’s ass belongs to God now’?”

“Actually, Dean,” Castiel sits in the chair next to Dean. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable before, but that symbol on your arm is the first letter of my name in Enochian.”

“What?” Dean can’t help it. He takes one look at Castiel’s grim expression and cracks up. When his laughter dies down enough, he manages to choke, “You mean to tell me that you left your angelic signature on me?”

“It wasn’t intentional. Regardless, my claim has been on your soul since I raised you from Hell. What did you think the handprint was?” Castiel asks, looking almost offended. Sam snorts loudly behind them, but Dean ignores him. Castiel continues, “If the ritual is actually turning you into an angel, the Enochian symbol marks me as your maker.”

“Holy shit,” Dean says. How is he supposed to feel about this? Relieved? Angry? Shit-scared out of his mind? “Do I belong to _you_ now?”

“No. You belong to yourself,” Castiel says intensely.

Sam clears his throat from behind him. “Guys,” he interrupts. “I’m gonna... go. Do more research and. Y’know.”

Sam disappears around the corner of a bookcase before either of them can protest. Dean gapes after him for a moment, then regains his bearings enough to focus on the issue at hand. “Is there any way to reverse this?”

“There is no counter-spell listed in the tome. If I try to extract the grace, I risk killing you. It hasn’t fully taken root yet. All we can do is wait to see if it does.”

“And if it does?”

“You become an angel.”

“And my soul?”

“Extinguished.”

Dean can tell that Castiel is fighting to keep his face neutral. Dean doesn’t bother keeping his own expression impassive; this situation warrants an internal crisis. “If it doesn’t?”

“My hope is that the grace will burn out and leave the rest of you intact. You seem stable right now; I don’t believe you are in immediate danger.”

But Dean is used to being in immediate danger, is the thing. More than used to it. These days he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself if he’s not two seconds away from Death’s door.

“Cas,” Dean says quietly. “I want to keep my soul. I’m not meant to be an angel. I’m the furthest thing from righteous or holy that there is.”

A shadow passes over Castiel’s face. “Dean, you are the closest thing to divine that I have ever known.”

“Bullshit.”

“You are also the most human,” Cas adds.

“ _Bull. Shit_.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I won’t anymore.”

Dean stands up as if to leave and Castiel copies him. Dean closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, Castiel is toe to toe with him. Dean has flashes of brief but sharp images of him and Cas standing just like this, years apart and in many different places: in a nondescript hotel room on the side of the highway, in the beautiful room surrounded by cherubic statuettes, after a misstep in the brothel, arm slung across Cas’ shoulders, leaning on him, laughing for the first time in weeks, the warmth and weight of fondness as it bloomed in Dean’s chest.

Dean in the present sucks in a breath and steps back. The memories ebb and Dean feels the anxious pressure that had been building up inside of him up until now abruptly recede. Dean doesn’t have to wonder whether the memories are his own or Cas’; he knows with undoubtable certainty that they are shared. Cas had provoked the initial memory, but the ones that came after were a product of their combined subconscious, their minds feeding off of each other. Dean has never experienced anything stranger in his entire life. Angel memory is crystal clear and vivid in a way that human memory is not. Every minute detail, every shared look and words unsaid between them-- Castiel remembers all of it and can recall it instantaneously. And now so can Dean.

“What is it that makes me different to you?” Dean asks, taking a different approach.

Castiel tilts his head to the side, waiting for the answer to dawn on him. He looks Dean over a few times as if the answer is hiding somewhere in the folds of his flannel shirt. “I don’t know,” he admits finally, but his expression is guarded.

“Do you think... do you think the grace will win out? Do you think I’ll become a full-blown angel?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel repeats. “I wish I could tell you.”

Sam walks back into the library at that moment, chewing idly on what looks like a protein bar and mentally asking Dean, _’Has the romantic tension died down here enough for me to breathe?’_

Dean rolls his eyes and snarks aloud, “So what do I do now? Just go on with my life and hope my little brother doesn’t have any self-insert wet dreams while I’ve got a front row seat to his brain?”

“I’m not twelve, thanks. I can keep myself in check.” Just as the words leave Sam’s mouth, something like a wall suddenly slams down somewhere in Dean’s head. Whatever background chatter from Sam’s internal monologue that Dean had been subconsciously filtering out for the past few hours quiets to a low hum. “See? Problem solved.”

“How’d you do that?” Dean concentrates hard on poking at the place where Sam’s consciousness had been just seconds ago, but there’s nothing there but the unyielding wall.

“I meditate,” Sam says stiffly, gathering up his papers. “Does wonders for self-control.”

_Figures._

Sam leaves again in one dramatic swoop, and Dean and Castiel are left by themselves. Dean tries not to think about how easy it was for Sam to put up a wall, how not so long ago a wall in his mind had been the sole factor protecting him from insanity (shoutout to Lucifer).

“He blocked me out,” Dean says after a short silence, inexplicably glum. Just a minute ago it had seemed like the most harrowing thing ever to be able to hear his brother’s thoughts, but now it is lonely, almost.

“I think he’s exasperated,” Castiel chimes helpfully.

-

Dean spends the next three days feeling like he belongs in an asylum. One second, everything is relatively normal, the next second angel radio has been unexpectedly switched back on and Dean has double-vision. He can barely stand to be around Castiel when that happens. It’s too much to see his massive true form overlaid with the smaller, innocuous form of his vessel. Cas has learned to keep his distance during Dean’s episodes.

On the third afternoon after Cas’ arrival, while Sam is _still_ busy poring over a stack of books in the library, Dean finally goes stir crazy. The bunker feels vast and open at the best of times and claustrophobic and stuffy at the worst. This is not one of the better times.

It doesn’t help that Dean can’t even have his own mind to himself. Every time he begins to lose himself in a train of thought, Sam’s own thoughts slip in and turn everything upside down. Sam forgets to block Dean out when he’s concentrating on something else. For a time, Dean has trouble parsing what’s coming from himself and what is a product of the racing mind of his little brother, who - insufferable genius that he is - sometimes thinks in multiple languages at once.

Like he is wont to do, Dean eventually snaps. Sam licks his thumb and turns another page in his book, and Dean stands up so fast that his chair falls over. “Can you,” Dean clenches his fists and turns his head to the ceiling as if praying for guidance, “I dunno. Maybe not. Do that. Anymore.”

“You want me to stop reading?” Sam asks incredulously, eyebrows climbing rapidly into his hairline.

“I want you to stop doing your best imitation of a supercomputer,” Dean snarks, wiggling his fingers at Sam’s massive head. “You’re giving me a migraine.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Get Cas to take you out.”

“What? I need a babysitter to leave the house now?”

“No, I just thought it could be a good idea to have backup. We don’t know if other angels can sense you or not. What if one of them...”

“Descends from the Heavens and tries to smite me?”

“You never know,” Sam says, straight-faced.

“Right. Well, I’m not exactly eager to go out there and eavesdrop on the whole world.”

“And I’m not going to get any work done with your dark cloud hanging over me. Just take a walk or something, Dean. Someone needs to get some research done around here or we’ll never do anything but sit and wallow.”

“Okay, fine. Have it your way,” Dean says, more to prevent an all-out argument than to be accommodating. He fingers the car keys in his pocket and waves to Sam as he heads for the garage. “See you in a few, Sammy.”

Castiel is leaning against the Impala casually when Dean gets down to the garage, if tense shoulders and an even tenser jaw can be described as casual. He’s doing the whole squint first, ask questions later thing. Dean, who has been subjected to this bizarre inquisitory practice too many times to count, is unfazed and generally unimpressed.

“I take it you’re tagging along?”

“Sam thinks it’s a good idea,” Cas answers evasively. “We spoke earlier.”

“Yeah, it’s a great idea. It’ll give you a chance to stretch out your wings and all.”

A brief shadow passes over Castiel’s face. Dean cringes. Fuck, he should have known. The wings - or rather the lackthereof - are a sensitive subject nowadays. Not exactly polite conversation.

“Uh, I’m probably just going to go out for a drive or something. Maybe stop for coffee. You in?” Dean asks.

Castiel manages a shrug.

“Okay.” Dean unlocks the car and breathes. “Let’s go, then.”

-

Dean stops at a Biggerson’s an hour from the bunker. Cas gets a coffee - black, no sugar. Dean orders a coffee of his own and a cinnamon roll that he takes one bite of. His appetite is dwindling. He hasn’t said anything to Sam or Cas about it, but it’s true. He can feel himself growing less hungry by the day. Less _human_ by the day.

The mind-chatter of the people around him is overwhelmingly banal and monotonous. There is an older man thinking homicidal thoughts about his boss, a woman who keeps going back and forth over whether or not to text her ex, a couple of teenage boys who are thinking impure thoughts about the aforementioned woman’s cleavage, and a handful of other people who aren’t even worth acknowledgement. Collectively, their thoughts are so unremarkable that Dean can tune most of it out without even trying. He can’t believe that this is what the average person worries about. Is this what the angels feel like when they’re on earth for long periods of time? Is this why so many of them harbor disdain for humankind?

Dean can almost understand that feeling now, and it scares him. Being around other people makes him feel alien. It’s almost like feeling himself turn into a demon again, only this time he doesn’t have the irrepressible urge to murder everything in sight. Instead, he just feels hollow and separate from everyone else, a different species entirely.

The coffee makes Dean more restless. He lasts another two whole minutes in Biggerson’s before he stands so fast that his chair almost tips over and hastily makes an exit. Castiel is hot on his trail, naturally, though he does remember to leave a three dollar tip for the waitress before he follows Dean out to the parking lot.

Outside, the sky is clear blue and vast, but it does nothing to inspire the feeling of awe that usually blooms in Dean’s chest at such a sight. The only thing he feels is distant relief at being away from the afternoon crowd.

“Dean?”

Dean turns to find Castiel standing a foot behind him, hands loose at his sides, eyes slitted in concerned bewilderment.

“You ever kind of hate humanity?”

Castiel’s squint deepens. “No.”

“Really? Not even when we do stupid shit like blow each other up or poison the environment?”

“Perhaps another angel would tell you that we’re all above that, but we’ve inflicted a fair amount of destruction on this earth too.”

“Yeah, but you guys are warriors. Destruction is in the job description. My whole life I’ve been killing monsters based on the assumption that human life is somehow worth more. What if I’ve been wrong? What if humans are just as bad as everything else out there?”

“Dean...”

“Cas, what if I’m wrong?” Dean repeats, voice raw like it’s been scraped out from the bottom of him.

Castiel puts two fingers to his forehead, like he used to do in the old days when he was about to zap him somewhere without warning. But the fingers are gentler now, kinder, and they trail down across Dean’s forehead to his cheek, until they find their final resting place at the bolt of his jaw. They curl there, lifting Dean’s chin just enough that he is looking Castiel directly in the eye.

“You’ve done what you were taught to do to survive,” Castiel says firmly. “And your will to do so is incredible. I’ve always had a certain appreciation for humanity, but you taught me its worth. You taught me how beautiful and destructive and resilient humans are.”

“But what if we don’t deserve it? What if we don’t deserve to be saved?”

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel uses the hand on Dean’s jaw to guide his head closer. He nudges his forehead gently against Dean’s, and for a moment neither of them say anything, too caught up in sharing each other’s breath and space. “We all deserve that chance.”

Dean pulls away before he can completely lose himself. The carefully constructed foundation that his composure is built on is crumbling fast. “Right, well” he says, fighting to sound neutral. “Let’s. Let’s go home. Maybe Sam’s found something by now.”

-

Dean pulls over on the side of the highway halfway back to the bunker because his skin is itching so badly he feels like he’s going to crawl out of it. Castiel has been quiet for a while now, and it’s been bothering Dean more than he cares to admit. Castiel makes no comment as the Impala rolls to a stop on the bumpy shoulder. Dean clears his throat, combs his dirty fingers through his hair, and tries to get the buzz in his veins to settle.

Ever since Castiel got close to him in the parking lot he’s been feeling like he’s going to shake apart at any moment. When he tries to open his mouth and convey this in words, what comes out is, “Hey, why is your mind harder to read than Sam’s?”

Another thing that has been bothering him.

“My mind is beyond human comprehension.”

“Of course it is,” Dean grouses. “But now that I’m somewhere in between human and not-human, shouldn’t I have a front row seat to your mind too?”

“You may have grace inside of you, but your mind is still functionally human. Angels don't think like you and Sam do.” Castiel looks like he’s struggling to explain, but he trucks on, “My grace processes stimuli differently. What you sense when you try to read my mind is a kind of after-image of me, like what you see when you close your eyes after looking at direct sunlight. The closest thing to describing my actual thoughts is what you would interpret as color.”

“You mean you’re a walking rainbow and I’m somehow missing that? Why?”

“It would be overwhelming to perceive,” Castiel says, strained. After a stilted silence, he concedes, “But with the grace, no great harm would come to you from trying.”

Dean squints, trying to ‘perceive’ something from Cas, but there is nothing that distinguishes him from the surrounding air except a prickling sense of electricity, like the feeling of being charged with static after rubbing a balloon on your head. “I gotta be honest with you, man. Right now you’re pretty much a blank slate. No color in sight.”

“I’m not projecting anything in particular.” Cas shrugs, but he looks shifty, uncomfortable, his eyes cutting suspiciously to the side.

“You’ve put up a wall like Sam has, haven’t you?” Dean accuses. Castiel immediately goes tight around the eyes, and Dean knows he’s right. “Hiding something?”

It’s meant to be a light-hearted statement, but there’s too much shared history between them for it not to hit a pressure point. Something dark passes over Castiel’s face; Dean curses himself. “Dude, it’s okay. I get it. You’re not comfortable with the whole Vulcan mind-meld thing.”

“It’s not...” Castiel blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable.”

“You know I’ve seen worse. Try me, Cas.”

Castiel studies him intently, and Dean feels the weight of his scrutiny prickle down his spine. Then, between one blink and the next, Dean is suddenly overcome with-- color isn’t even the right word for it. It’s like he’s been blind all of his life and is just now seeing the sunset for the first time. Castiel’s entire being _radiates_. He is every hue on the spectrum at once. Light shines out of his pores like sun beams through a stained glass window, distorted and fractured but no less beautiful for it.

How was he ever this oblivious to the immensity that is Castiel? Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe that the thin skin of his vessel is the only thing between Dean and all of that light.

“Have you always been so...” Dean swallows loudly and waves his hand vaguely. “So much?”

Castiel turns his luminous gaze on him, and for a moment he is not Cas at all, but something alien and incorporeal. “I was much more than this before Metatron took my grace.”

“Tell me.”

Castiel gets a far-away look in his eyes. “Once I could have commanded the seas, Dean, and everything other natural thing on this earth would have bent to my whim if I wished it so.”

There is a hint of wistfulness in his voice, something that could almost be mistaken for pride by someone who didn’t know any better. To think that Castiel has fallen so far, sacrificed so much for them... and for what? To what end?

Dean’s face is wet. Castiel shifts closer in the passenger’s seat and wipes the tears from his face with his fraying sleeves. Dean drops his head into the crook of Castiel’s neck and tries very, very hard not to shake.

“Have I upset you?” Castiel asks, genuinely distressed.

“No.” Dean takes a breath. Chokes. “I just don’t get it. I don’t understand why you gave up that kind of power. You should never have broken me out of Hell. None of this would have happened to you if you hadn’t raised me. You should have left me there to rot.”

Castiel hands turn into scalding brands against Dean’s back; there is a livid energy in him that pulses through Dean’s veins like fire. Against his better judgement, Dean continues, “I’ve-- I’ve stooped to the lowest level a man can stoop to. More than once. I don’t know why you’ve sacrificed so much for me-- for us, and why you keep sacrificing yourself for us again and again. Stop bleeding for us, Cas. You deserve better.”

Castiel’s face does a strange thing then: it crumples. “Dean, please don’t depreciate my choices. Everything I have done up until this point has been of my own free will. I’ve learned so much along the way, felt more than I thought possible, and seen things in a way that I couldn’t before.” Castiels spreads his fingers and gestures to his body. “For better or for worse, I am changed. I may have lost power, but I’ve gained understanding. I’ve gained a... a family. There’s nothing shameful in that.”

“How can you say that?” Dean blinks away a fresh rush of tears. The Mark hasn’t let him feel this vulnerable in months; every time he had felt exposed, its insidious presence turned that weakness into aggression. Then, more forcefully, “All we’ve-- all _I’ve_ ever done is hurt you.”

“Read my mind.” Castiel murmurs, cupping his hands around Dean’s jaw. “What do you see?”

Dean closes his eyes and feels the wall around Castiel’s mind shatter. It’s like flood-gates opening; Dean immediately feels something like liquid gold slosh through his veins. There’s no other word for it. It vibrates beneath his skin like electricity surging through a livewire; he feels it in his throat, the thrum of his heart against his ribcage, the catch of his lungs as they expand with oxygen.

When Dean opens his eyes there is more gold haloed around Castiel in a diaphanous veil, pulsating like a living thing between them. In the gold there are other colors too: faint traces of lapis blue and strands of chartreuse and vermillion intertwined with one another, wound into a network of delicately stitched patterns.

“What is this?” Dean rasps, stepping back in the hopes of easing the immense pressure he feels weighing on his body.

“It’s me. My mind.”

Castiel was right. The grace inside Dean allows him to see all of this, but he can’t make sense of it. He understands Castiel’s earthly memories - they’re pictures, easy to look at - but this is something else entirely.

“I know,” Dean swallows, because it _feels_ like Cas in some obscure, indefinable way, “but what are you thinking about right now? What does gold mean?”

“It’s what I feel when I look at you,” Castiel says. “It’s us. It’s everything.”

Dean pulls away from him. His chest is rising and falling worryingly fast and absolutely everything is spinning. Castiel clenches his jaw and reigns his thoughts in. The gold aura around him abruptly dissipates. Dean takes a deep, deep breath and feels every muscle in his body quiver under the pressure that’s building inside of him. He turns the key in the ignition with clumsy fingers and drives the Impala home without another word.

-

Sam is hunched over the screen of his laptop in his room when Dean finds him. The door is ajar, so he assumes it’s safe to come in. Sam glances up when he steps over the threshold, eyebrow quirking. One look at Dean’s face and he’s snapping his laptop closed and folding his hands over his knees.

The wall in Sam’s mind slips for a half-second, and Dean feels a sharp punch of worry coming off of him before Sam regains control of himself. Is that all his brother does these days? Worry about him?

“What’s up?” Sam asks, deceptively casual.

And what is Dean supposed to say to that? ‘Cas thinks I’m everything’? ‘Cas thinks I hung the fucking moon’?

“Do you think Cas is in love with me?” Dean asks instead.

Sam’s face does not transform like Dean expects it to. In fact, it remains blank.

“Obviously,” Sam says. “I was starting to think you’d never get a clue.”

“Sam,” Dean seethes. He is beyond fed up with nothing making sense today. “What are you talking about?”

Sam holds up his palms disarmingly. “I’m just relieved that the pining is over.” Dean stands there silently, uncomprehending, until Sam eventually adopts an exasperated frown. “It’s not over, is it?”

“Uh, no? I don’t even know what you mean.”

“I’ve known he was in love with you for ages, Dean. A guy has to have his head pretty far up his own ass not to see it.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus,” Dean snaps, feeling annoyingly light-headed. He makes his way to Sam’s narrow bed and all but collapses on the edge of it. Sam curls his legs up to give him more space instead of telling him to fuck off and roll over. This must be serious. “Elaborate.”

“Oh, it’s just the little things,” Sam starts sarcastically. “Like how Cas looks at you like you’re the only one in the room, or how he drops everything if the word ‘Dean’ is so much as implied. And there was that one time when Cas abandoned his mission in Heaven to be down here, with you. And that other time he rebelled against the entire heavenly hos--”

“Okay!” Both of Dean’s hands are covering his face. He can’t tell if he feels warm and achy all over because he’s embarrassed or if he’s about to have a heart attack. Both sound equally plausible. “I get it. Cas cares. About me. A lot. I thought he just did all of that stuff out of some misplaced sense of heavenly duty.”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam leans over him so that Dean is forced to meet his eyes. “Don’t even answer that. Do you get it now? Because Cas more than cares. Like, I think you might be _it_ for him.”

Dean swallows past the gluey lump in his throat. Okay. It’s like any other day: the sun is shining, his brother is a dickhead, Dean is halfway to becoming a thing he hates, and Cas is maybe in love with him.

“I just don’t see it,” Dean says quietly. “I keep trying to picture it, but I can’t imagine someone so, so--” _kind, brilliant, ethereal_ “--good loving me.”

“That’s the problem with you two. You both think the other is too good for yourself. If you could see the way he looked at you...” Then an expression so jubilant that it borders on ridiculous appears on Sam’s face. He nearly jostles Dean off the bed in his excitement. “Dean, read my mind.”

“Sam...”

“Just do it,” Sam snaps impatiently.

Dean rolls his eyes and concentrates hard, leaving his mind as open as possible. At first there is just the white noise of the mental wall, but then a muscle in Sam’s jaw tics and the silence disappears only to be replaced moments later by a flood of memories. They’re snapshots, most of them blurry, and each one is of the same thing: Cas looking at Dean.

Some of them are older; there are stolen glances in the rearview mirror of the Impala, Cas watching Dean, stricken, after they found out about the deal with Crowley, Cas watching him walk away after he first noticed that Dean bore the Mark, and countless other little moments previously unaccounted for. Some are as recent as a few hours ago, when they were eating dinner. There’s one image of Cas smiling faintly as Dean struggles to tear a piece of meat in half, sauce dripping down his chin. He makes a terribly unattractive picture, and Dean can even feel Sam’s mild disgust coloring the memory, but Cas looks anything but put-off. In fact, he’s looking at Dean like he’s the Second Coming, like the world starts and ends at Dean’s feet.

When Sam has run out of images of Cas staring at Dean, he starts projecting memories of Dean looking at Cas. Dean is startled to find that his expression is almost identical to the one Cas was wearing in all of those memories, so startled that he scrambles off of the bed and abruptly shuts Sam’s thoughts out of his mind. Sam flinches, feeling the rebuff.

“I don’t know what to do,” Dean admits. He stands still, frozen frozen for long enough that Sam has to put his hands on Dean’s shoulders and march him out the door like he’s five years old and nervous about his first day of kindergarten.

“Tell him how you feel,” says Sam, like it’s a simple matter of doing.

“I don’t even know what to say to him.”

“Just the truth is fine, Dean. You at least owe him that.”

Sam lets go of him and steps back, then promptly retreats into his room and closes the door behind him. Dean is left staring down the corridor, dread pooling in his gut.

-

When Dean doesn’t find Castiel in the library, he immediately resigns himself to misery. Of course Cas is gone by now. When they had gotten back to the bunker, Dean promptly went about putting as much distance between them as possible. He doesn’t know why he expected Cas to still be standing here, waiting for him, but finding that he isn’t hurts like a solid right hook to the jaw.

Dean sits down at the table where Sam had been researching before and allows himself to stew in the oncoming wave of self-loathing. He’s halfway through an internal self-deprecating soliloquy when the soft scuff of footsteps on linoleum interrupts him.

“I tried, Sam,” Dean sighs, keeping his head down out of shame.

“Tried what?”

“Um.” Deans turns wide eyes on an unassuming Castiel who just walked in from the kitchen. “You’re not Sam.”

Cas shakes his head and wiping soap suds off of his hands with a dishrag. There are, inexplicably, a few suds nestled in the crop of his messy hair like he has been running his fingers through it.

“You’re still here?” Dean asks, as though Castiel is not actually standing right in front of him as solid and present as ever.

“Yes,” Castiel says serenely. “The sink was getting full, so I finished doing those dishes from a few days ago for you. I thought you might have gone to bed already. Today has been rather taxing, after all.”

“Cas,” Dean croaks. It comes out too fond. He clears his throat and stands up to try again. Castiel’s expression is placid, but there is something suspicious in the straight line of his mouth - something that speaks almost to nervousness. “You have soap in your hair,” Dean finishes. He takes two steps to close the distance between them and swipes the suds away with his fingers.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, genuinely grateful.

“I want this all the time,” Dean blurts.

Castiel’s eyebrows pinch in the middle. “Soap in my hair?”

“No.” Dean laughs. And laughs some more. He remembers the way Castiel looks at him from Sam’s perspective; it seems much simpler now. “I want this: you eating dinner here and then us doing the dishes afterwards, maybe watching some TV together, just-- everything. I want us. Human or not.”

“You’re sure?” Castiel asks, shoulders tense, adam’s apple bobbing in an apprehensive swallow. Such a human gesture.

“Of course.”

They’re still standing very close. Dean studies Cas’ face and tries to see what Sam sees when he looks at the two of them. It takes a few seconds, but there-- there it is: the soft, liquid look of his eyes, the pliable upwards curve of his mouth.

“Sorry about before, in the car,” Dean says gruffly. “I kind of freaked.”

“No, I’m sorry I overwhelmed you. I should have known it would be too much.”

“I’m not overwhelmed anymore,” Dean says tentatively. Castiel tilts his head, considering. Dean’s mouth is bone dry. The heat in the room ratchets up to eleven. He doesn’t have the words to verbalize what he wants to say to Cas, so he settles for action instead, fitting his palm to the curve of Castiel’s jaw, curling his thumb into the warm skin of his cheek, and pulling him close enough to trace the deep creases at the corners of Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel’s mouth falls slack unconsciously, and Dean barely has to pull before Castiel is nudging forward eagerly, lips catching on his own. There’s a steady push and pull between them, like an ocean current. They kiss as gently and inexorably as the ebb and flow of the tide.

Then Castiel takes the reigns, and the kiss is suddenly ravenous. Dean yields immediately. Everything he sees, hears, and smells is saturated with _CasCasCas_ , a low and steady thrum that pulses in time with the rabbit-quick beat of his heart. Dean succumbs to the wet heat of it rather quickly and is completely jarred when Castiel pulls back suddenly.

“I’m not sorry,” he breathes. They’re so close Dean can taste the words on his tongue. Dean pulls back a little, watches Cas’ pupils dilate accordingly. Dean mumbles something that resembles ‘what.’ Castiel grins crookedly and leans back into kiss him. They stay like that for a second, warmth pressed against warmth, heartbeat to heartbeat. “For giving up half my grace,” Cas eventually clarifies. “I’m not sorry for saving you, or choosing you over Heaven, or wanting to stay here with you. I’m not sorry for any of it, and I never will be, so please don’t feel like you have to apologize for my sake.”

“Okay, got it.” Dean’s heart feels fit to burst, but it’s a good feeling this time. “No more apologies.”

“And one more thing,” Castiel adds, butting their foreheads together gently. “I’m not sorry that I love you, Dean.”

A part of him must have known it was coming, but the admission still hits Dean square in the chest nonetheless. He lets the words roll around in his mind for a few seconds, tries to qualify the storm brewing in his chest and comes up blank. So he takes the simpler route: he closes his eyes and allows the rush of Castiel’s mind to envelop him again.

There are no barriers to speak of this time; Dean leaves himself wide-open and vulnerable. Being surrounded mentally by Cas is much the same as being surrounded physically by him; he feels secure and content, safely ensconced in the brilliant golds of the vast and terrific entity who loves him, somehow, without reservation or boundary.

“I’m not sorry either,” Dean says, and means it.

-

When they end up in bed it feels just as natural and inevitable as breathing. They’re in Dean’s room with the door locked and Dean’s head is swimming with how grateful he feels: grateful to be alive, grateful to have Cas in this way, grateful that he feels the most human he has in days.

Dean is aware that he looks good like this objectively, jeans around his ankles, hips raised just enough to be suggestive. He also knows from previous experience that the sight of him splayed out like this is obscene enough to make just about anyone with a healthy libido hot under the collar. What he doesn’t know is if Castiel falls into that “anyone” category, but the way his eyes darken at the sight of him is probably a clue.

Dean feels anticipation pool at the base of his spine. He kicks the jeans off the rest of the way and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers. Castiel makes a tiny, destroyed sound in his throat, and when Dean looks back at him, there is unadulterated reverence in his eyes. Dean peels his boxers off in a hurry and rolls over onto his stomach, baring his naked back to Castiel.

There’s the sound of fabric rustling, and then Cas presses himself all along Dean’s body, chest bare. He’s still wearing his pants, but the feeling of _any_ of Cas’ skin against his own is enough to make Dean’s mouth water.

Dean reaches back to spread his cheeks and keens as Castiel unexpectedly swipes a thumb over his hole. Dean is hot all over, flushed to the tips of his toes, and they’ve barely even done anything. Jesus Christ. It’ll be a miracle if he survives this at all.

“You’re very warm,” Castiel murmurs, astute as always.

“No kidding,” Dean manages to choke. Cas thumbs over his hole again, making a thoughtful sound as Dean involuntarily clenches around nothing. Between one breath and the next, Dean is flushing even more. His neck is probably all red like it sometimes gets when he’s really, _really_ embarrassed. Or turned on. Or both.

“It’s endearing,” Castiel says, “to see you like this, spread out for me.” Cas leans down, chest moulding to Dean’s back, and places a chaste kiss at the base of his spine where Dean’s skin burns hottest. Then he brushes an equally innocent kiss over Dean’s earlobe and asks, “What do you want?”

Dean’s hips buck forward into the mattress on instinct, grinding his cock into the rough fabric of the bed spread. The friction offers no relief, only serves to ratchet up the heat simmering in Dean’s gut.

“I want you to-- to fuck me,” Dean eventually gasps out. “I want it so bad. But.”

Castiel sees Dean’s hesitation for what it is, but that doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Cas is always seeing Dean, one way or another. “Have you ever had sex with a man before?”

“No,” Dean responds automatically, then immediately feels a punch of guilt. He stops working his hips for a moment. Bites his lip. There was that one time with Benny before they’d found Cas in Purgatory. But that was just relieving stress, and he’d never thought he’d see Cas again, anyway, with the way his prayers were going ignored. And, okay, he _did_ suck off Donnie the bartender a few months ago, but he’d had a few drinks and he was lonely and couldn’t look at himself in the mirror without seeing his eyes flash black, and Donnie was the perfect mix of distracting and understanding - the kind of guy who wouldn’t call you in the morning and ask you on a date. And there had been that one deputy back in Hibbings...

Dean clears his throat. “Well, I-- I mean, I have, technically, but I’ve never been fucked.”

That is true, at least. Benny had fingered him to orgasm, but there hadn’t been enough time in Purgatory to, to--

“Do you trust me?” Castiel asks. Quietly, like he thinks Dean is going to get mad at him for asking.

Dean twists his torso around uncomfortably so that he can look Cas in the eye. “Dude, I... I trust you more than I trust myself.” He huffs a laugh. “I gotta say, I can’t see how you missed that. I pretty much handed you the most dangerous weapon in the world just a few months ago, and I let you burn the Mark of Cain out of me with your grace.”

Cas fits a broad palm around the back of Dean’s head and holds him there as he kisses him. It’s languid but laced with the kind of passion that Dean read about at 15 in those dumb 75 cent romance novellas that he used to hide from John at the bottom of his duffel bag.

He’s so distracted by the feel of Cas’ tongue tracing along his own that he almost misses the finger that Cas runs down the cleft of his ass. It’s wet now, probably with the lube that Dean keeps squirreled away in his night stand for special occasions. Dean hadn’t even heard him flip the cap, but it all seems very inconsequential now that Cas’ finger is pushing at his rim slightly, just enough to give Dean a taste, make him hungry for it.

On second thought, Castiel probably doesn’t expect it to have the effect that it does, because he looks a little surprised when Dean completely stops responding to the kiss, mouth falling slack. Dean’s legs spread unconsciously to give Castiel’s arms more leverage, and he’s so caught up in the feel of Cas gently fucking that one finger into him that he doesn’t even register the sound of the lube cap flipping open again. Cas squeezes a too-generous dollop of lube onto his palm, eyes all the while transfixed on the golden stretch of Dean’s neck, the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he swallows compulsively.

Castiel’s fingers still for a moment and Dean right away pushes his hips back against his hand impatiently.

“You love this,” Cas realizes aloud.

“What gave me away?” Dean pants.

Cas rolls his eyes fondly and removes the one finger only to push two in a second later, fucking him with renewed vigor. There’s a fair amount of lube dripping from Dean’s hole now, enough that Cas’ fingers slip in and out with no trouble. It undoubtedly helps that Dean is so easy for him, yielding to every movement of Cas inside of him like he was made to be there.

“Now.”

“No.” Castiel scrapes his incisors over the thinnest area of skin on Dean’s neck and Dean all but melts beneath him, pliant and soft as a ragdoll. “I could hurt you if this is not done properly. And I will not--” Cas cuts himself off to suck a bruising kiss right over Dean’s pulse point, “--hurt you anymore.”

“Not hurting me, Cas,” Dean mumbles, turning to bury his burning cheeks in the crook of his elbow. “I’m ready. I’m so fuckin’ ready for it. _Please_.”

And Castiel knows that it’s true: Dean - skin all pink and burning hot, eyes clouded over, pupils dilated hugely - is gagging for it. Castiel continunes fingerfucking him undeterred. After all, it’s not like Dean is going anywhere. He can learn to be patient. Patience, Castiel thinks, is a virtue.

He is three fingers deep in Dean’s ass by the time Dean gets really desperate.

“Anything. I’ll take anything. I don’t care. Just do it. _Fuck_ me.”

Castiel’s pinky skirts around the edge of Dean’s rim. He considers. Then he looks down at his own cock, beet red and actually pulsing, and makes up his mind.

“Mhm,” Cas murmurs, pressing the sound into the bolt of Dean’s jaw. He extracts his fingers carefully, slowly enough to feel Dean’s hole try to seize around them on their way out. “Spread your knees more.”

Dean does so easily, and Castiel conveys his gratitude with a swift slap to Dean’s ass, just enough to make his skin ripple a little with the force of it.

“Lift your hips.”

Dean follows this direction just as swiftly, almost overbalancing and face-planting onto the bed in his eagerness. Castiel thinks this is almost unbearably endearing and finds himself helpless to take a short detour.

He presses a featherlight kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck and trails his lips upwards from there, leaving kisses in his wake. By the time he reaches the underside of Dean’s jaw, they’ve both gotten decidedly distracted. Dean is rolling his ass back into the bulge in Castiel’s tight briefs, and Castiel is entirely absorbed in the taste of Dean’s skin and the scratchy feel of the stubble peppered under his chin.

Dean cranes his neck around as far as it will go to catch Castiel’s lower lip in his teeth. They trade breath and saliva for a few long minutes until the pressure in Castiel’s briefs encroaches on all coherent thought. Absently, Cas reaches down to palm himself, which quickly turns into jerking himself over fabric, which quickly turns to kicking off his briefs and rutting his bare cock into the dip of Dean’s lower back.

Dean responds beautifully to this new development. He puts his hands on himself and spreads his cheeks without even being asked until Cas has a clear view of the stretched red rim flexing open and closed before him.

Just like that, Castiel has reached his breaking point. He slips two fingers inside Dean as far as they will go as a courtesy to ensure that he’s still stretched. When he’s satisfied that Dean is loose enough still, he slicks his cock with a handful of lube and presses it down, down, down, smearing precome and lube messily as goes, until he feels the slight give of Dean’s hole. He nudges forward gently, breaching him by an inch. Castiel pauses there, breathes. “How does it feel, Dean?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but it seems he is beyond words. He uses his body to do the talking instead, pushing back until Castiel’s cock is sheathed halfway inside of him.

“I’m not sure how I’ve existed so long without knowing you like this,” Castiel says quietly. He flexes his hips forward and Dean swallows up the rest of him easily. They both still at the feeling of being joined completely, reveling in it.

After a minute, Dean says hoarsely, “Move.”

Castiel does, and it’s slow at first, like the coming and going of the tide. He strokes a thumb idly across the smooth expanse of Dean’s stomach, pausing to dig his nail in slightly over thinly stretched skin covering his hip bone because Cas has a sneaking suspicion that-- ah, there it is. Dean chokes out a low, animal sound and clenches involuntarily around him. Castiel bucks forward in turn, fucking him in earnest now.

“How’d you know?”

“That you were sensitive there?” Castiel asks. He digs the edge of his nail into the cup of Dean’s hip a second time, soothing the sting of it with the pad of his thumb immediately after. Dean nods jerkily in response.

“I remade you, Dean. I know you every part of you.” Castiel fucks a moan out of Dean on his next thrust, and the sound ignites something deep and primal in Cas’ gut, something that propels his hips faster. “Never doubt that.”

Dean makes another sound that is closer to a growl and flattens himself against the mattress, pulling Cas down with him. He can get in deeper from this angle, and Cas takes full advantage of it. Dean hitches his hips back against every single thrust of Castiel’s cock inside of him. “More,” Dean demands, almost choking back tears at this point.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” Cas nuzzles the words into the sweaty place between Dean’s neck and his shoulder. Dean’s internal muscles spasm around him as if in reply. He shoves himself inside as fast as he can go, jostling Dean in the process, until both of them are open-mouthed and white-knuckling the bedsheets. Castiel feels his balls draw up in anticipation. Three more carefully aimed thrusts and he’s pulsing copiously inside Dean, filling him up.

Dean pants, “Oh, _fuuuck_ , Cas,” and “There,” writhing back against him. Castiel presses his still-leaking cock into what must be Dean’s prostate, all the while feeling like honey has been injected into his veins.

Dean emits a desperate little cry that sounds like it was punched right out of him, ass clenching and unclenching in short spasms now. Finally, Castiel chooses clemency over cruelty and gives Dean’s cock a cursory tug, slicking his fingers with the abundant precome drooling from the slit. Dean jerks helplessly, and Cas lets go of his dick to tuck his long fingers under Dean’s warm, heavy balls. He rolls them gently together, shifting them between his fingers as if weighing them. Dean tosses his head back, overwhelmed. His eyes spill over with thick tears, full to the brim just like the rest of him.

Castiel nudges his softening cock inside Dean one last time, giving his balls a simultaneous tug, and Dean comes shuddering and shooting all over himself. His cock jerks out its spend for several seconds. Afterwards, most of Dean’s abdomen and Castiel’s hand are covered.

Castiel rolls off of him lethargically and collapses onto the mattress. Dean shifts so that his head is on Castiel’s chest. They don’t say anything; they don’t have to. Dean still feels traces of grace like lightning in his veins, but he is raw and dirty and tired and more sure than ever that this - what they are together, what they are to _each other_ \- is unmistakably human.

-

Dean wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later to Castiel staring at him, propped up in the bed. The room is completely dark. He has no sense of time down here, underground.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

Dean props himself up on an arm and scrubs his hand over his face, yawning. “Time is it?”

“Just after five AM.”

Dean groans and faceplants back into his pillow. “Why am I awake?”

Castiel nods at Dean’s arm wordlessly. Dean sits up fully and touches the place where the mark is glowing blue again. It’s much fainter now. The edges of the Enochian lettering are fading into something well-worn and indistinct, like an old scar. Castiel takes Dean’s arm in hand and the mark flares brilliantly under his touch for a millisecond before dimming again.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Castiel says quietly.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks nervously.

“Souls and grace are opposing forces, like same sides of a magnet. When forced together, they repel, and in the process, the weaker force is destroyed.” Castiel pauses. “True vessels are the only thing that can withstand the immense energy contained in grace, and even then the vessels only survive when the soul is compatible with the specific angel possessing them. Jimmy Novak was my true vessel, which is why he was able to stay alive for so long. But if a human were to take on the grace of a random angel, they would eventually face complete obliteration of mind, soul, and body.”

“Like what happened to Raphael’s vessel?” Castiel nods. Dean takes this in slowly. It’s a lot. “But I’m alive. I feel fine.”

“I wasn’t lying to you when I said there was something about you that is divine. Your soul is still intact, Dean. You seemed to have... incorporated the grace; it has knit itself into the fabric of your soul and made it whole again. Do you feel it?” Castiel presses a flat palm to Dean’s solar plexus.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, because there is something lighter, looser in his chest. “I do.”

“Neither force has been destroyed,” Castiel continues. “Soul or grace. You possess both now.”

“You didn’t say that was an option before,” Dean says weakly. He searches within himself, tries to feel the grace that he’s supposedly incorporated into his soul, but there’s nothing amiss, nothing that suggests he recently absorbed a piece of a foreign entity.

“I didn’t know it was possible.”

Castiel is wearing a look that Dean is slowly learning to recognize - a look that makes Dean’s mouth is dry with how adoring it is. Castiel smells like cedar and Dean’s own room, simultaneously ancient and familiar; angelic and earthly. His hands ache to anchor himself on Castiel’s shoulders. He remembers belatedly that it’s okay for him to want that now. Castiel is warm, his chest sturdy yet malleable beneath Dean’s hands. He lets himself be maneuvered into lying on his back, lets Dean climb over him and flop onto his chest.

“So I’m not one-hundred percent human anymore?” Dean breathes the words into the dip of Cas’ collarbone. He feels Cas huff patiently against him, feels his ribcage expand with air before he speaks.

“It’s not a matter of percentage. The grace hasn’t made you an angel, but I wouldn’t venture to say that you are solely human.”

“But I don’t hear the angels anymore. You look and sound... normal. And I can’t even sense Sam in the other room.”

“Your body perceives what it is used to perceiving. Angelic senses were overwhelming to you. Now that the grace has settled within you, your mind seems to have unconsciously adapted to filtering extraneous stimuli.”

“So, in layman’s terms... I’m some kind of hybrid?”

“You are something all of your own, Dean,” Castiel says. He puts his hand over the nape of Dean’s neck, and it’s like aloe to a bad sunburn. Dean immediately calms. If Castiel is unperturbed by this, it must not be that big of a deal after all. Being half-angel is... well, it’s weird and uncomfortable to think about, but it doesn’t seem to be having an active effect on him anymore. Besides, Dean has been far, far worse things in his time on this earth.

Dean thinks for a while, then says,“You think God would have been against this? Us?”

“We’ve made it this far together,” Cas reasons. “If God is still out there, He’s doing a terrible job of keeping us apart.”

“Maybe He _wants_ us together,” Dean muses cheekily. “Maybe it’s, like, preordained or some shit.”

“Maybe,” Cas echoes.

Time passes. Castiel plays with the soft hairs at the base of his neck. Dean lets his head loll into the crook of Cas’ armpit. He’s close enough to hear his heartbeat; it is just as steady as it was last night. Just as human. The thought rattles annoyingly in Dean’s mind. Eventually, he works up the nerve to ask, “How’s the rest of your grace faring?”

Cas looks almost amused by the question. He shrugs. “It’s on its way out.”

Dean props himself up on an elbow and lays his hand over Castiel’s forehead. His skin is clammy, hot. Feverish. “Shit. You gonna be okay?”

“The fever isn’t nearly as bad as it was last time. With less grace to burn out, the process will occur over a shorter span of time - a week or two at most. I should survive it.”

“ _Should_?”

“I will,” Castiel amends hastily. “This body is durable.”

Dean swallows thickly. “So, you’re back on the fast-track to humanity?’

Castiel laughs, and Dean is immediately taken by the crinkle of his crow’s feet, his gummy smile, the too-blue of his eyes. When Cas sobers enough to speak, he says, “It would seem so,” with such solemnity that Dean’s heart aches for him.

“It’ll be better this time, okay?” he says softly. Dean can feel Cas pull away from him, but not physically; it’s almost as though a part of Dean still retains an intuitive sense of Cas’ mind. “I swear, Cas. You are priority number one this time. You stay here with us. We take care of you no matter what. You tell me what you need and I’ll do what I can to give it to you.”

“Why?” Castiel looks at him askance. “What changed?”

Dean winces. Fair question, but it still stings. “My priorities, I guess. I’ve been knee deep in my own shit for so long I missed what was right in front of me.” Castiel remains silent. Dean licks his lips, says, “Look, I’m fucking serious. I’m not going to jeopardize this.” Still no response. “I can’t lose you again,” Dean adds, voice verging on desperate.

Finally, Castiel asks frankly, “You’ll still want me here even when I’m no longer powerful?”

“ _Cas_.” Dean is too fucking sad to be embarrassed about the way his voice cracks over the single syllable. He’s only beginning to understand just how massively he’s fucked up lately. He can’t remember that last time that he treated Cas with genuine compassion, and that is unacceptable. “Of course. You’re-- man, you know what you are to me.”

“Tell me,” Castiel says. Dean flushes; his automatic response is to refuse, to go on the defensive, but Cas gives him a look so piercing that it quels those impulses before they have a chance to take root. “I’m not going to be able to read minds for much longer, Dean. We should practice our communication skills.”

Despite himself, Dean snorts a laugh. God, he loves this dorky asshole. He fucking _loves_ him. He opens his mouth to say so but the words stick to his tongue.

“I’m asking too much,” Castiel concludes, face simultaneously softening and falling. He looks resigned but not particularly surprised when he adds,“It’s okay. I unders--”

“I love you,” Dean says in a rush. The words don’t scrape his throat raw on the way out. There is nothing painful or bad about it at all, just a satisfied simmer in his gut and the rapid pound of his heart at having said it aloud, finally. “Cas, I love you so goddamned much.” He hiccups a laugh. “Um. I haven’t said that to anyone in decades.”

“I hadn’t said it to anyone at all before you.” Castiel passes his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone and studies his face seriously. “And you will be the last.”

This time, Dean does sputter and pull back a little. The loss of warmth along his side is jarring. Dean puts on a brave face and shrugs. “Hey, you never know. Might meet some hot chick at the bar one day and dump me like last week’s leftovers.”

“No,” Castiel says, so gravely that Dean feels almost chastened.

"Some dude, then."

" _No._ "

“You sound pretty sure of that."

“I am.”

“You don’t think it’s too early on in the game for lifelong commitments?”

“Dean, I’ve known you for almost eight years now. My feelings are not a recent development.”

“Oh.” Dean swallows. “How long have you... y’know.”

“I can’t measure how long I’ve loved you. I don’t know when devotion became something else. Perhaps I was changed from the moment I saw your soul.”

“I think you give me too much credit,” Dean says. “I think you’ve always wanted more, always had the will to do more, even when you were still just a foot soldier following orders.”

“I was only trying to complete my mission before I met you.”

“But you had doubts.”

“Angels aren’t meant to question,” Castiel deflects.

“But _you_ did.”

Castiel frowns. His hand has stilled in Dean’s hair.

“Do you think you have a soul?” Dean asks after a long silence.

“No,” Castiel says immediately, like a reflex. “Of course not.”

“I think you do.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you always try to do what’s right. Because you have an incredible capacity to forgive. Because you love me in spite of the fucking mess I’ve made of us.” Dean exhales deeply and feels lighter. “I think maybe God got it wrong with you,” he muses, tapping his fingers contemplatively over Castiel’s heart. “You’re the most human angel I’ve ever met.”

-

Somewhere in Heaven, Metatron’s fingers itch for his typewriter, but the prison cell is barren, and he has nothing but his mind at his disposal. Fortunately, that has always been enough. He closes his eyes and begins to compose the beginning of his story. The rest has already been written, but he likes to save the beginning for last. He can almost hear the imaginary punch of the type-keys as he writes the opening scene:

1 PAN IN - EXT. UNKNOWN BEACH - EDGE OF THE WORLD - SUNSET

Two figures stand on the rocky shore of a barren primeval beach. METATRON, Scribe of God, stands at the shoreline with a large book in his hands. Behind him, just over a hairsbreadth away , is the radiant figure of MICHAEL.

MICHAEL  
What will you do with the tome? I know you do not share Lucifer’s hatred for humankind, but you do not seem particularly loyal to them, either.

METATRON  
I am loyal only to God, Michael, but I swear to protect the tome with my life. Do you doubt me?

MICHAEL  
Your intentions trouble me. You know the ritual is not to be performed unless the war with Lucifer annihilates too many of us, and you know I will not let that happen.

METATRON  
Of course.

MICHAEL  
Why is it then that I sense a desire within you to utilize it?

_The sun is setting, casting the empty sky in a honey-hued glow. A small, pitiful looking fish washes up on the shore in front of the Metatron’s feet: God’s first juvenile attempts at life. Soon, there will be so much more than this. Soon. Metatron turns to face Michael, who shines like the fledgling sun, and smiles._

METATRON  
I have a story to tell, brother.


End file.
